WASHINGTON, D.C. — People always talk about the things they learn when they move to new, exotic places. Things they learn about themselves, about people, about geography, about history — there seems to be a never-ending supply of epiphanies when you move somewhere outside of your comfort zone.

What I’ve learned, in the month-and-a-half I’ve been here, is that I wasn’t as culture-shocked by D.C. as I thought I would be. There aren’t people here who, after listening to me talk, ask with a smile if I’m from the South. The people here aren’t that much different from the ones in Arkansas. It’s more diverse, more rich culturally, but I don’t feel much different here than I do in my home state.

The most important thing I have learned by living here is that Apple Maps is a double-edged sword, one that you’ll live and die by as you navigate through the labyrinth of streets and traffic circles D.C. has to offer. It has the potential to be as frustrating as it is helpful: it maps routes in the opposite direction of the way we’re heading, will frequently miscalibrate what road we’re on, and will lead us to locations sharing the name of a metro station, restaurant, or other attraction we’re looking for, which we don’t realize until we arrive there.

When my fiancée, Jess, and I are walking through the city, where a turn in the opposite direction is as easy as spinning on our heels, it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience; when we’re driving, with cars whizzing by us at an upwards of 60 miles-per-hour, it’s enough to call off an engagement.

“You need to go right there,” I say, pointing towards the left lane. This was two weeks ago. We are driving in the outskirts of the city, and the road in front of us is about to bisect. I don’t remember where we’re heading. She is driving in this instance, and I am manning the phone, the Maps application open on my phone and charting our path.

I’ve driven the majority of our time in D.C., but Jess, frustrated by the whims of the phone, would rather drive than try to decipher directions.

“That one! That lane! The lane right there!” At this point, it’s like a bad Abbot and Costello routine, except neither of us are in on the joke, each of us growing more and more frustrated with each obvious question she asks and each vague answer I give.

“Right or left!” she shouts.

“Left!” and it’s as if we’ve broken down some sort of language barrier. “Left!” I shout again triumphantly. “Go left! Left!”

She veers left at the last second, and we ride in silence for the rest of the drive, the calm after the storm.

To make matters worse, my iPhone is three years old, and using the Maps application, which tracks your location via satellite, drains its already weak battery. Since Jess doesn’t have a data plan, my phone is our only hope for finding our way through the city without having to do any of the work involved with it.

One day, I decided I was going to head into the city for a brief visit to a bookstore. At first, I thought it would be fine — 85 percent battery life for a two-hour trip into the city? No problem at all!

My first mistake was thinking I could get in and out of anywhere in the city in under two hours; my second mistake was not realizing how dependent I’ve become on my phone.

I sat on the metro, taking the phone from my pocket every half a minute to check its battery life. For the first half of the metro ride, I could distract myself in looking at the neighborhoods sprawled out below us, but then the train went into a tunnel and the sights were replaced by my own face reflected in the window backdropped by darkness.

I fidgeted in my seat. I took my phone out of my pocket, checked the time, and realized that a minute hadn’t even passed since I had last checked it. I put it back in my pocket, looked around, and realized that I had three options: I could stare out the window at darkness (which would be weird), I could stare at the people around me sitting in the car (which would be weird), or I could do what everyone else is doing: pass the time with my phone. I took the phone back out. My battery life was around 80 percent at this point, and it dropped to maybe 73 percent as I browsed Reddit and Twitter until the train reached my stop.

I was going to a bookstore that day in DuPont Circle, which required me to use my phone to find its precise location. I used the Maps application, walking down the sidewalk holding the phone like a man unsure of his bearings would a compass, my phone’s battery life ticking downwards like a bomb’s detonator. 83% became 60% (which is still in the sixties, I reasoned, plenty of battery life left!) to 45 percent. By the time I left the bookstore, my battery life was 30 percent.

I wondered what I would do if I my phone died when I was in a foreign part of the city. I would have to actually pay attention to my surroundings rather than stare down at a phone, would have to rely on remembering landmarks instead of following a blue dot’s movement along a blue line. I would — gasp! — have to pay attention to the world around me.

That didn’t happen, though. I made it back to the metro, where my battery died. From there, I knew how to get home. But now, I remember to bring my charger when I make a foray into the city. The alternative’s a little too scary for me.

Former Courier reporter John Post is spending the summer in Washington, D.C. as his fiancée, Jess, completes an internship.